About A Pirate And His Savior
by CoolKidConan
Summary: "They're kindred spirits." One-shots about our dear Captain Hook and our Savior Emma Swan and their lives together. Includes AUs, fluff, some angst... Mostly Captain Swan but some chapters might include/be centered around other characters as well! Prompts and requests are always welcomed!
1. Marks Upon Skin

Hi! Thanks for giving this fic a try! It's mostly going to be a series of one-shots I come up with (because I'm terrible at multi-chaptered fics ugh) revolving around Captain Swan, or Emma and Killian. Some of them will be AUs, others will be pure fluff, some might be a bit angsty, some might include other characters. But mostly, they're all inspired around songs in one way or the other. So here's the first one!

**Summary: **"He's never one to ask directly about her past and her innermost fears except when it's absolutely necessary; when she's doubting her magical abilities, or her task as a mother, a daughter or a friend. And when she does, he lets her hear everything he has to say, the brutality and truthfulness of his words soothing and reassuring in the most bittersweet way she can ever possibly fathom."

Inspired by the song: _Human - Gabrielle Aplin_

happy reading!

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><p><span><strong>Marks Upon Skin<strong>

There's a whole lot more to Killian Jones than Emma Swan had originally thought. Not that she thought he was a simple person to begin with, but now, now that's she's seen everything there is to him —in every possible sense of the word— she realizes he is just _so much more._ There's a rough edge to the way he's exposed himself to her, the nakedness —both physical and metaphorical— she has seen him bathed in being something she thought would scare her. Turns out, it invites her towards him even more. She thinks maybe she admires him for allowing her inside so easily after centuries —literally— of isolation, loneliness and solitude. She hopes one day she can do the same for him, and she tells him with her tender gaze and sweet smiles. He chuckles,

"No rush, Swan."

And she's positive she's never been happier.

She's learned quite the things about him and his past, discovering what he's like as if she was exploring land for the first time. She realizes early on that he's an early riser, almost always up as soon as the sun, and she wonders whether it's an old habit that he's picked up from years and years under the soft swaying of a ship. When she asks, he shrugs and says,

"Old habits die hard." and bites into his apple. She thinks about making a joke about the irony of the fruit, but ultimately decides against it.

He's never one to ask directly about her past and her innermost fears except when it's absolutely necessary; when she's doubting her magical abilities, or her task as a mother, a daughter or a friend. And when she does, he lets her hear everything he has to say, the brutality and truthfulness of his words soothing and reassuring in the most bittersweet way she can ever possibly fathom. And she thanks him wordlessly over and over again, too bad with words to try and express herself, letting actions speak for themselves instead. He doesn't complain.

And she absolutely loves the way he leaves his most comforting thoughts and words for when she's at her lowest, when weakness has overtaken her in the middle of the night and she wakes up screaming, sweating, her heart beating so erratically it feels like it's going to burst out of her chest. He soothes her ache with loving words of comfort, brushing away her nightmares with the simplicity of a paint brush flowing on top of a canvas, replacing darkened colors with blue, white and yellow tonalities, as if it were a painting by Van Gogh.

She's never told him she loves Van Gogh. She finds hope in the way he just _seems to know._

But she absolutely hates the way his voice grows quiet and solemn when he mentions his brother, and she realizes the reality of his loss is still too present in his mind, even after so many years. She understands. Liam was the only thing he had left, and she finds understanding in the way he had to mature, learn to live on his own at a relatively early age. And only then does she realize they have so many more things in common than she'd originally thought.

She catches on to the way he avoids her gaze whenever she mentions The Jolly Roger, so she makes a point to avoid the topic at all costs. Occasionally, when they're both snuggled up on the couch or in bed, vulnerability getting the better of them, she'll ask him softly to tell her stories about his pirate days, about his adventures at sea and the gold he's taken, about the lands he's stepped on and the people he's shaken hands —or swords— with. And he'll oblige, the sincerity and rawness of his tone urging her to listen intently, as if afraid he'll think she doesn't care about them.

But she does. She cares _so much. _

Other things she discovers aren't as deep, but she finds them quite entertaining. She's discovered, for example, that he hates all board games that don't involve cards or dice. They've tried _Cluedo_ and _Monopoly_ a few times, at Henry's suggestion of a family game night, but there seems to be no possible way to get him even the least bit interested in them. She teases him about the pirate in him when all he seems to care about are games that involve bets of some sort, and he snorts and raises his head in mock superiority as a response. He seems to have taken a liking to Jell-O ever since that time he discovered it in the hospital, and firmly believes it has medicinal properties. She hates to burst his bubble, so she never contradicts him. And she found out once that his favorite icing is tainted blue, and she wonders if it's because it reminds him of the sea.

The day he allows her to change his leather-clad attire for something more… casual —such as a white shirt and cargo pants— is the day she considers she's made significant progress. What she doesn't realize is that she's made progress ever since that day they almost forcefully climbed that beanstalk together.

That is, until he whispers it softly to her one night, when they're both lying down in bed, his bare back peeking out from the covers that come up to his waist. And the only reason he tells her is because she's tracing the shapes of his scars with her index finger; a feather touch, as if scared her touch might burn, or reopen them. She dares not speak, worrying her questions will be the ones doing the reopening instead, but she finds herself in awe as she traces the patterns imprinted on his skin, decorating his back and his arms.

They're scraped on the skin of his memories, of his experiences. They're like one of the maps he'd follow to get places, only now she's the one following it; they mark the ports of the adventures he's lived through, of the pain he's experienced, of the losses he's grieved, of the victories he's celebrated with clinks of beer mugs. She traces them, unconsciously asking for stories whenever she lingers on one of them too much, and he gives them to her without thinking about them. He tells her about duels with other pirates fighting for the same treasure, about encounters with sirens and mysterious dark creatures in Neverland, about training with a sword for the first time next to his brother, about his first and last showdown with Pan and about tie ropes burning against his skin. He never tells her about the biggest, most important one, courtesy of his encounter with the crocodile, because he's not ready yet. She respects that.

She doesn't need him to tell her which ones are older than others, because she can perfectly distinguish the ones that are _Killian's _and the ones that are _Captain Hook's._ She smiles to herself when she distinguishes both sides of the same coin by the location, shape and size of the scars she traces, and she decides there is definitely more Killian in him than there is Hook. Which is why she's reserving his 'colorful moniker' to concrete situations, when there's taunting or flirting or mocking involved. She knows he's grateful for it because the smile that fights its way up to his lips every time she pronounces his name is the brightest smile she's ever seen.

Her fingers stop in their tracks when they press against a softer one, one that hasn't had the advantage of years to heal and solidify, one that is still warm against her fingertips.

"This one's new." she says, and she raises her head from her pillow slightly. It's in his forearm, almost reaching the crook of his elbow, and he shifts his face ever so slightly to look at it, as if he's forgotten about it already.

"That one, dear," he says, his tone slightly condescending in the sweetest way, "is what happened when I tried to get out of those damned handcuffs you put me in to stay with the giant."

Her eyes widen suddenly, for the first time realizing that the explanation he always gave to escaping —_pirate—_ involved a bigger amount of hurt than she'd imagined. She winces slightly, hopes he hasn't seen her. But he has. He always does.

"Don't worry, love." he says, a soft smile grazing his lips. "It was worth it."

"Was it?" she asks in a hurry, almost as if she couldn't stop herself. "Were any of these worth it?" she asks, motioning to the scars as if trying to fix some error she had committed by asking the first question.

"Some of them more than others." he replies almost nonchalantly, like it's no big deal that he's been hurt so many times, that he's felt pain right on his skin in so many occasions.

"I'm sorry" she almost whispers, as if she had been the one inflicting that pain on him. In the back of her mind she thinks in some ways she has; she has because of the beanstalk, because she didn't trust him, because of Neverland, because of New York, because of Zelena's stupid curse and her time portal…

As if reading her mind he pushes himself up slightly and says, "It's not your fault, Swan. They're not a big deal."

"But they hurt."

He shrugs, "Back in the day sure they did. But now they're a reminder. Of the past. And of progress. And of the future."

She rolls her eyes at the poetic tone of his words, curses his fairytale background for the romanticism of it all and tries to lighten the tone with her mock annoyance and a peck to his lips. He smiles proudly at her, the cocky bastard he is, and she lies her head back down on the pillow almost at the same time he lets his chest rest against the mattress again.

She resumes tracing his scars and tries to lighten the mood again,

"What about this one?" she asks, pointing at one that stripes across his left shoulder blade.

"Ah, that's actually a funny story…"

She pays more attention to the way his lips form around the words and to his accent than to his story. But for the first time since she's met him, she realizes she's fallen in love with Captain Hook. No, scratch that. She's fallen in love with Killian Jones.


	2. Of Kisses and Promises

Hello! Thank you all so much for your favorites, follows and kind reviews! They make me so, so, so, so happy, you have no idea! You are all too kind! Anyways, I'm glad you guys are liking these one-shots, so here I bring you another one! Hope you enjoy this one as much as the first! Reviews are always super welcome, and they make me super happy!

happy reading!

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><p><span><strong>Of Kisses and Promises<strong>

The first time they kiss it's rushed, and he barely has time to register anything that's happening. It's hot, he's sweating, they're in the middle of Neverland after he's just saved her father and his head is a tangle of nerves and surprise. He has to admit, he never thought she'd actually, well, kiss him. He'd taunted her, fishing for it, almost wishing she'd pull him in and seal his lips with hers. But it was a wish, a desperate hope fueled by a yearning so big in his chest that he'd do _anything_ to try his luck.

"Perhaps it's you who couldn't handle it."

He almost doesn't have time to enjoy it, being far too engrossed in the heat of it all, in the desire and the strength it's taking him to restrain himself. She soothes the desperate ache in his chest with loving caresses of her lips, sliding across his with experience, and it seems as if they've been doing this forever. He has time to kiss back, his lips desperate and fierce, hoping to show her that he's not faking it, he's not trying to get in her pants for the fun of it. To show her that he's here, he's not leaving. He's not going to abandon her, ever.

_That he's in it for the long haul. _

But before he has time to do anything else she pulls back, panting, her ragged breath mimicking his. She keeps him close, holding him by the black leather collar of his jacket, and she presses her forehead to his. He tries to regain his breath, his thoughts, collecting himself for long enough to at least utter a word, anything that'll keep her close, that'll make her realize once and for all everything he's tried to say for so long. But he finds himself awestruck, still too hazed by the frenzy of the moment to speak, and when he opens his mouth all he can say is,

"That was…" and it sounds like a strained breath more than an actual sentence.

"A one time thing." She reminds him, pulling her forehead back but still grasping his collar tightly. It sounds to him for a second as if she's saying it for her own sake, to convince herself, more than anything else.

When he watches her walk away he stays still, his fingers ghostly pressing on his lips, a memory lodged so back in his head coming back for seconds. He has the feeling he's felt those lips on his before. But he shrugs it off, lets out a mouthful of air and blames it on the rum.

The second time they kiss, he's almost given up. He's been searching for who knows how long, and after having outrun a curse only days before, his legs are aching and there's a pounding in his head from the city lights and the sounds of cars. He's almost given up, his head clouded with thoughts and his heart in a constant battle with himself; part of him misses the Jolly Roger he's had to trade –not that he'll ever tell her that—and part of him yearns for her so much he finds himself forgetting the ship he once considered his home.

He's tired, and he's restless, and he thinks he should've never crossed realms. That is, until he knocks on the door and she opens it, green eyes staring at him with curiosity and surprise, her almost golden hair dripping down her shoulders with a seeming magic only she could accomplish. And when he sees her standing there, he can't help the grin that spreads across his face, stretching his lips because _finally_ he has found her.

"Swan. At last."

It's the words he's been dying to say for so long. The words that motivated him to leave his crew and outrun the curse, to abandon the Jolly Roger, to search for her day and night without a stop. To find her. To bring her home.

And when her green eyes show no signs of recognition whatsoever, he panics. Desperation invades his heart as he notices she really doesn't remember –part of him knew her memories had been wiped, but a larger part of him hoped, somehow, she'd still remember him. So when she doesn't, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion, he resorts to his last hope, the wish that perhaps, only perhaps…

But when he kisses her, nothing happens. Well, except for the fact that she knees him so hard in the stomach that he falls backwards, grunting and groaning in pain. He _really _should've seen this coming. He barely has anytime to call out her name in a desperate plea, begging her to give him the time to explain, that everything will make sense, before she closes the door in his face. He groans in exasperation but pulls himself up, dusting off his jacket and wiping his forehead. Now that he's found her, there's _no way_ he's going to let her go.

The third time, he doesn't remember. Because, well, technically the third time is the first time. He's still not quite sure how this all works, this time and space traveling because of Zelena's portal, but there is one thing he knows for sure: there is nothing he hates more than seeing himself kiss her.

He knows it's childish, being jealous of his own past person, except it's really not. He remembers clearly the person he used to be. The lips that she's kissing now are full of anger, regret, thirst for revenge, disappointment, heartbreak and loss. Oh so much loss. He remembers how he'd drink his nights out in taverns, surrounded by women whose name he'd never remember, ever, hoping any of that would erase the pain of losing his Milah. And every morning, when he finds her still fresh in his mind, the vivid image of her lifeless body in front of him while Rumplestiltskin crushes her heart in front of him, he finds himself in more pain that he's ever felt before. And so he repeats the process night after night, hoping, this time, it might change.

His present self remembers that pain all too well, still haunting his dreams –what have become nightmares, rather—and his memories every now and then. He remembers his heart feeling weak and blackened, his head wanting to forget every day that he'd ever live without Milah. He knows his past self, who is currently in a tight lip-lock with Emma, wants nothing more than to forget what he's living. He knows there's nothing else in his past-self's head than hatred, and sorrow and Milah. _He_ doesn't deserve to kiss her.

So before he can register what he's about to do, he pulls back his past self with his hook and punches him so hard in the face that it reddens his knuckles almost immediately, and he has to open and close his palm four times before he can feel his fingers again.

"Are you kidding me?" he hears Emma shout at him.

No, he really isn't.

The fourth time happens after their time-traveling adventure, and he has to admit he _did not_ see it coming. He's sat down outside Granny's diner, hoping to give her and her family some space as they announce her brother's name. He doesn't need to hear it. He figures what it'll be, knowing the Charmings, and his heart pulls only thinking about that young kid that found his way to his ship all those years ago, the splitting image of the woman he'd once loved so much. He looks up towards the sky and remembers how he'd taught him to navigate using the stars, and before he knows it he find himself smiling at the dark universe and mouthing a single syllable.

_Bae. _

He looks down and frowns a smile when he hears the door open and he looks up, only to be surprised when he sees her step outside, a smile on her face. He smiles back and puts away his rum, eyes her as she sits on the chair besides him, her body facing his.

She talks to him, her voice soft and gentle and all of the sudden open and free. Like she's got nothing more to hide. It's a blissful moment, just the two of them under the colorful lights that hang outside the diner, and he finds himself too tired to put up any sort of wall, any sort of façade to protect himself.

When she thanks him and uses his real name –Killian, and it sounds like a sweet melody—he decides to let everything come down, for once exposing himself completely. He doesn't know if she notices. He hopes she will.

So when she asks him how she found her in New York, he tells her the truth.

"You traded your ship for me?" she asks, her voice a constraint of bewilderment and surprise.

"Aye." He says, not finding it in himself to reply anything else.

And before he realizes, her lips are on his, this time soft, gently, caring. Thankful. It's nothing like the others, and it's definitely nothing like the first –not that he had disliked that first one, mind you—but it soothes his ache more than any of the others. He has time to savor it, to enjoy it, to give back with as much tenderness as she, hoping this time she'll understand. She pulls back slightly and his heart stops for a brief second, panicking, wondering if it's going to be like the beginning all over again, wondering if it's just a thank you note that will not repeat itself again. Begging for it to not be a 'one time thing'. She smiles at him adoringly and he tilts up the corners of his mouth ever so slightly, still too scared to see where this is going. But when he lunges forward slightly again, and she meets him halfway, he allows himself to relax, knowing this isn't just another kiss.

It's hard to keep track of them after that, because he takes any chance he gets and kisses her, making up for all that time he's had to pull back and stare from a distance. Any chance he gets, he'll press a kiss to her cheek, or to her nose, or her forehead or her hair; he'll trace the contours of her lips with his until Henry, or David, or Snow, sitting with them at a booth coughs uncomfortably. He pulls back then, and smiles sheepishly, and all she can do is shake her head with a smile, murmuring something about him being like a child.

Some of them, though, stand out more than others. He remembers how she'd melted under his lips the night they got back from their time traveling adventure, buried in the covers of their bed. He remembers trailing kisses down her spine the morning after, grateful she was still there when he woke up. He remembers how he'd pulled her to kiss her passionately when they'd finally moved into their new apartment. He remembers her 'be careful' kiss when they had to split up to find Elsa –_she's freezing everything, God damn it—_and her teary eyes closing before crushing her lips to his upon finding him wounded but alive that same night.

But most of all, the one that plays the most over and over in his head is the one he thought would be the last one. He remembers it vividly, because it's the same memory he has of almost dying.

Elsa –or the Snow Queen, whoever she wants to be because honestly at this point who knows—struck his heart when he got in the way of protecting David, and he can feel his limbs growing numb as the cold invades his lungs. He hears Emma at a distance running and shouting,

"No! Killian!" with a desperate, broken voice and David cursing at him for getting in the way.

She finds her way to his side and kneels down beside him, cradling his face in her hands. He can see through his almost closed eyes the tears running down her cheeks without a stop, her desperate pleas of "no, no, no" over and over again as she attempts to run her hand over his body to save him.

It's Regina who comes next and tells her there's nothing to be done. Elsa's magic is far too powerful for any of them to counterattack it –he figures _that's _why Rumple kept her in that vault—and Emma sobs and shouts at her that there's always a way.

He finds his strength and shushes her sweetly, interiorly hating whoever it is that cursed his life because now that he _finally _had her he has to go. But he gathers up his strength to reassure her that everything is going to be fine, that nothing is going to happen and that "Come on Swan, you're the savior. You shouldn't be crying about a pirate."

She doesn't even chuckle, and that's how he _knows_ she's gone. She's broken, and it's his fault, and although he promised himself –and everyone around him, for that matter—that he'd never hurt her, he can't help but think he has. And it's his entire fault.

He can feel the ice reaching his heart and he tries to stifle out one last sentence she wants her to hear but he's cut by her own lips on his. He figures it'll serve the same purpose so he kisses back in a way he's never done before. If this is going to be the last thing he ever does, he's damn sure going to do it the right way. He can feel her tears on his cheeks as she clings desperately to him. And that's when he feels it. That whooshing feeling spreading through his body and everything around him and he feels his breath come back to him and his limbs get warm. And he takes the warmth inside of him and sits up, never breaking their kiss, and kisses her back with such passion she grins at him when she realizes she's saved him.

In their heads they both hear Rumple's voice in the distance,

_Only an act of true love can thaw a frozen heart. _

The 250th time they kiss –he's not counting, but he figures it's got to be around that number—it's a promise. It's a promise of eternity and of a lifetime together. It's a promise of home. It's a promise of Jell-O cravings and beanstalks –she still doesn't forget her first one—, of magic beans and Neverland confessions, of regained memories outside an NYPD precinct, of Prince Charles and Princess Leia –now that he actually gets the reference—, and of apartments by the sea in Storybrooke and regular, in-this-realm clothes.

It's a promise of a past written in a fairytale book and of a future yet to be imprinted on a blank page.


End file.
